The Old Burning

I find it hard to indulge in the foreign practices that appear before me, especially when I see them all laughing canonically and seldom sighing in defeat, and when I gather among them, disconnected, and afterwards I limply make my way out of the steamy room, Alone. For my fire flickers, my lighter is out of gas— The logs are only burning far away in my past. I still remember the caressed cheeks of old lovers, and my hands criss-crossing their porcelain bodies with The finale of the orgasm, and then, Laying on our aching backs, hot with cold sweat, We talked about the brevity of it all. Where is that old burning now? "Is there a way I can help you avoid your fall? I will always be by your side, you know that." Where is that old love now? Dying in a ditch with its bones broken, A red rose upon it as a reminiscence so cruel That no letter or appreciation token Can make me not feel like a used fool. The leaves gather together, brown and crunchy, Kids jump over them and make them whimper, not unlike The treason of unfaithfulness; When you've given your warmth and get squashed like a housefly That cannot find its way out of the sacred church. Since love is a religion to some, the loyal followers of the bittersweet (I find it hard to indulge . . .) That cannot get enough of that stinging defeat Which comes unwanted with a sloppy beat. Like a funeral march in July, the mourners Mourning a corpse so old it falls apart; It must have been a suicide, or the Poison of the crying widow: Her tears a façade for hidden glory Sub umbra of a crying willow. I drink in lonely rooms, the TV showing me cellophane smiles; "A whiskey for the tired poet! May its burning stir a hundred styles Of prose and poetry—O thou that defeated cometh From the ashes of fiery nights!" 2020.